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Faith

Okay, not literally. But I grabbed hold of the door handle on Apollo 11. You know, the thing that took homo sapiens to the moon.

So yeah, I’ve basically been to space.

Anyway, here’s the clarity:

We live in a teeny tiny existence that feels like a universe. We’re so small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things. This is both terrifying and liberating.

Think about it: we’re a microscopic speck on the page of a book in an atom’s library. To this invisible thing, we are too small to see.

Yep.

We are naturally that insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

But here’s the beautiful thing:

God chooses to make us visible.

And He lets us decide how we want to be seen.

As a friend, an acquaintance, a stranger in passing…

As a constant blessing, a giver and taker, a relationship parasite…

As a lover, a mediator, a hater…

As proclaimed Christians, we bear the responsibility of this truth: how we choose to be seen is a direct reflection on His image, whether an accurate portrayal of His character or not.

And this makes us not just visible, but significant.

When we make our faith known to the world, every single action becomes a statement and every word a contractual obligation.

So when we choose to lay our lives down before Jesus, we must not just accept Him as our Savior. We must accept Him as our Lord, Guide, Chief Navigator, Disciplinarian, Father, and Lover of our soul. Forever. Not for a moment. For. Ever.

Because it’s not about us.

It’s never been about us.

And even as our significance increases, it decreases.

Because when we’re doing it right, when we’re living right, in all the radiant visibility we are granted by God, we become once more invisible and only Christ can be seen in, on, and around us.

Just as it should be.

Moment of full honesty: I was thinking about this before I “went to space.” I just couldn’t bypass an opportunity to tell you that I TOUCHED THE FREAKING DOOR HANDLE OF APOLLO 11!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’ve been thinking a lot about my childhood and teen years of late. Mostly, I’ve been thinking about how productive they were in comparison to my 20s thus far. That’s a little lot sad. But anyway.

I’ve also been thinking about what I would tell myself if I could go back in time. After mulling this over for a week or so, I came to the conclusion that it would be: “Own every decision you make.”

I don’t mean to own it by flaunting (which is apparently the new definition??), but by taking ownership. As in: taking responsibility.

Something that really gets under my skin is when people say “have to.” No matter what they’re referencing, if they’re not a paralytic whose every body movement is only made possible through others, they don’t “have to” do anything. They choose to. I choose to.

Every single thing I’ve ever done has been because I chose to do it.

Even if someone has a literal gun pointed at my literal head, if I do something they demand, it is because I choose to do it to avoid death. It is not because I have to do the thing, but because I want to do it in order to live.

I’m frequently accused of seeing the world as a black and white picture.

First off all, why is it a bad thing to only see the world in black and white? Everybody loves a good black and white picture. Especially us minimalists.

Ahem.

The truth is: I see all the colors that other people see – all the shades of green and blue and red and yellow. I even see purple, though I wish I didn’t. But what I also see is that every color is rooted in either black or white, and therefore is, in essence, black or white.

If we boil it all down like this, understanding there is a root to everything is a pretty good way to start second-guessing your decisions.

To start taking ownership.

Because if you don’t.. well, that’s how we got purple, people.

But more seriously, similar to color, every single action is rooted in one of two things: good or evil.

This is why it is sostinkingimportant to take ownership of our decisions!

Every decision we make results in some kind of action, and, as we all learned in grade-school science, every action has a reaction. These reactions are always a reward or consequence.

Sure, sometimes they’re both to some degree (hello shades of gray). But for the most part, reactions can be filed under one category or the other. If you’re struggling to figure out whether an action is good or evil, look at the reaction.

What is the consequence/reward of eating an entire bag of chips?

What is the consequence/reward of a catnap?

What is the consequence/reward of standing up for the downtrodden?

What is the consequence/reward of gossip?

What is the consequence/reward of holding onto an extra sweater?

What is the consequence/reward of telling your neighbor about Jesus?

Once we decide what the consequence or reward is (which may vary person to person), we can make a decision fairly quickly. It doesn’t mean that we always make the right decisions, but we do decide.

And also, there’s no one making us.

I wish there was. I wish I could blame someone else for my teenage rebellion years, or for my past with pornography, or for my choice to take out student loans for a degree I never got around to completing.

But those decisions were my own.

I chose to talk back basically every single time my mom gave me instruction.

I’ve had to live with the consequences of those decisions: the tumultuous relationship I had with my mom for years, the shame of having a past and the fight against temptation to return to it when life hits lows, the payments wasted on a loan I didn’t need that could have gone to travel or ministries.

I didn’t own my decisions then. I tried to blame my relationship with mom on her behavior; honey, it takes two to fight. I tried to blame my struggle with pornography on the rampant access the world provides us through internet; honey, you can turn off the computer. I tried to blame my college choices on the pressure society puts on me to conform; honey, you were made to be transformed, not conformed.

But I do own my decisions now.

In fact, I actively choose to take ownership of my decisions. I tell people, “I don’t want to,” instead of “I can’t.” I tell people, “I’m sorry,” instead of “Well if you hadn’t done blah, then I wouldn’t have been forced to blah.”

It was, without doubt, the worst day of my life. It surpassed the day I found out I had an incurable illness, it surpassed the day my mom had to have gallbladder surgery, and it surpassed the day my dad told us he had stage 3 cancer. It was a Saturday, and it was the day my dad left. Not just for a quick trip, or even an extended one – no, he permanently walked out the door.

Just a few weeks prior, we were all shocked when he announced that he was resigning from his position as pastor and divorcing my mom. Not a single member of the congregation saw it coming. Unfortunately, neither did any of his four kids, or his wife. Everything I had ever known to be my reality was forever changed.

This new chapter of my life challenged one of the deepest truths that I have always held dear: God is deserving of worship no matter what is going on in my life. Worship is about Him, not me. And because of this truth, when I think back to the day that my dad left, I can’t help smiling. You see, it was the worst day of my life, but it was also the first time I fully understood the impact of worship.

After my father hugged each of his children, and then my mom, he walked out the door for the last time. Our bodies trembled, tears streamed down all of our cheeks, we clung to each other. We were desperately broken. Then a soft voice whispered in my heart, “Invite Me in.”

The Lord was beckoning me to worship even in the prison of my devastation. When words had left me and my soul ached, I had to make a decision whether or not to uphold what I had always believed. I solemnly lifted my head began to sing. “Holy Spirit, You are welcome here. Come flood this place and fill the atmosphere. Your glory, Lord, is what our hearts long for… to be overcome by Your presence, Lord.” My family began to lift their voices in accompaniment to my own, the tears still streaming, hands still trembling. We sounded awful as our voices warbled through our tear-thickened throats, but still, I felt an undeniable shift in the atmosphere.

The King, the Comforter, the Prince of Peace had just stepped into our living room.

As we sang, the tears stopped flowing and our voices grew stronger. When the first song came to an end, I began to sing a more upbeat tune, “I feel the joy of the Lord falling fresh on me, I feel the joy of the Lord, delivering me.” Once again, the voices of my siblings and mom joined in. Before long, we were smiling as the joy of the Lord flooded the room.

On a day that the enemy meant to be the devastation and ruin of my family, God’s peace and love filtered in through the darkness and brought us into a place without fear: the serene presence of His perfect love. Because we wouldn’t let the enemy silence us, because we were bold enough to worship our God who is deserving no matter what, we were comforted in His arms.

It was the hardest day of my life, but it showed me what is truly in my heart. I’m forever changed because of a day that should have destroyed me, and instead grounded me. No matter what goes on in my life, I will always remember that day and what it taught me. This I believe: God deserves my worship no matter my circumstance, and He always responds.